Eva was crouched near the stairway, bandaging a female fighter whose shoulder was punctured in several places by small shrapnel, when a mortar shell burst at the head of the upper entrance. Her body shielded the woman she was tending as the blast mauled her with flying rock. She lost consciousness and awoke later to find herself laid out on the floor with the other wounded.
One of the medics was at work on her as Pitt sat and held her hand, his face tired, streaked with sweat, and wearing a stubble of beard turned nearly white with billowing dust, lit up with a loving smile.
"Welcome back," he said. "You gave us quite a scare when the stairway caved in."
"Are we trapped?" she murmured.
"No, we can break out when the time comes."
"It seems so dark."
"Captain Pembroke-Smythe and his team cleared an exit only big enough for us to breathe. It doesn't let in much light, but keeps out the shrapnel."
"I feel numb all over. How strange there is no pain."
The medic, a young red-headed Scotsman, grinned at her. "I've heavily sedated you. I couldn't have you waking up on me while I set your lovely bones."
"How bad am I?"
"Except for a broken right arm and shoulder, one or more cracked ribs— I can't tell without X-rays— fractured left tibia and ankle, plus a sea of bruises and possible internal injuries, you're quite all right."
"You're very honest," said Eva, gamely forcing a thin smile at the medic's battlefield whimsy.
The medic patted her good arm. "Forgive my bleak bedside manner, but I think it best you know the cold truth."
"I appreciate that," she said weakly.
"Two months' rest and you'll be ready to swim the channel."
"I'll stick to heated swimming pools, thank you."
Pembroke-Smythe, indefatigable as ever, moved about the crowded arsenal keeping everyone's spirits up. He came over and knelt by Eva. "Well, well, you're one iron lady, Dr. Rojas."
"I'm told I'll survive."
"She won't be engaging in wild and crazy sex for a while," teased Pitt.
Pembroke-Smythe made a comic leer, "What I wouldn't give, to be around when she recovers."
Eva missed the Captain's sly innuendo. Almost before he finished his remark she had slipped back into unconsciousness.
Pitt and Pembroke-Smythe stared over her into each other's eyes, the faces suddenly devoid of humor. The Captain nodded at the automatic pistol slung under Pitt's left arm.
"In the end," he said quietly, "will you do her the honor?"
Pitt nodded solemnly. "I'll take care of hers."
Levant came up, looking grimy and tired. He knew his men and women could not endure this punishment much longer. The added burden of watching the suffering of women and children wrenched at his tough, professional spirit. He hated to see them and his beloved tactical team being mercilessly subjected to such torment. His coldest fear was being overrun when the bombardment stopped, and then watching helplessly as the Malians ran amok in butchery and rape.
His best guess of the force against them was between one thousand and fifteen hundred. The number of his men and women still capable of fighting was down to twenty-nine including Pitt. And then there were the four tanks to contend with. He had no idea how long they could hold out before being overrun. An hour, maybe two, more likely less. They would make a fight of it, that much was certain. The bombardment had oddly worked in their favor. Most of the rubble from the walls had fallen outward, making it difficult for assaulting troops to climb over it.
"Corporal Wadilinski reports the Malians are beginning to form up and move in," he said to Pembroke-Smythe. "The assault is imminent. Widen the entrance to the stairs and have your people ready to move out the instant the firing stops."
"Right away, Colonel."
Levant turned to Pitt. "Well, Mr. Pitt. I believe the time has arrived to test your invention…"
Pitt stood and stretched. "A wonder it hasn't been blown to splinters."
"When I gave a quick look aboveground a few minutes ago it was still sitting in one piece under a section of one wall that was still standing."
"Now that's enough to get me to quit drinking tequila:"
"Nothing so drastic as that I hope."`
Pitt looked into Levant's eyes. "Mind if I ask what your answer was to Kazim's surrender demands?"
"The same reply we French gave at Waterloo and Camerone, merde."
"In other words, crap, " Pembroke-Smythe translated.
Levant smiled. "A polite way of putting it."
Pitt sighed. "I never thought Mrs. Pitt's boy would end up like Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie at the Alamo."
"Taking into account our small number and the enemy's firepower," said Levant, "I'd have to say our odds of surviving are no better and probably worse."
A silence fell so abruptly that it seemed a great blanket was thrown over the underground arsenal. Everyone froze and looked up at the ceiling as if they could see through 3 meters of rock and sand.
Holed up and pounded for six hours, the members of the tactical team who could stilt stand and fight threw aside the rubble that sealed the entrance, poured into the heat and scorching sun, and spread out through the ruins. They found the fort almost unrecognizable. It looked like a warehouse after a demolition crew had finished with it. Black smoke spewed up from the burning personnel carriers and all buildings had been almost completely flattened. Bullets were whining and ricocheting through the heaps of jumbled stone like crazed hornets…
The UN team was sweating from the Saharan heat, dirty, hungry, and dead tired, but they were totally devoid of fear and madder than hell at having taken everything the Malians had thrown at them without responding. Short on everything, but not fighting guts, they took up their defensive positions, coldly swearing to make their attackers pay a heavy price before the last of them fell.
"On my command maintain a clear, steady fire," ordered Levant over his helmet radio.
Kazim's battle plan was ridiculously simple, calling for the tanks to break through the battered main gate on the north wall while the assault troops charged from all sides. Every man at his command was to be thrown into battle, all 1470 of them. None would be kept in reserve.
"I expect all-out victory with no quarter," Kazim told his officers. "Shoot down any of the UN commandos who attempt to escape."
"No prisoners?" Colonel Cheik asked in surprise. "Do you think that wise, my General?"
"You see a problem, old friend?"
"When the international community finds out we executed an entire United Nations force, there could be serious countermeasures taken against us."
Kazim drew himself up. "I have no intention of allowing hostile incursion across our borders to go unpunished. The world will soon learn that the people of Mali are not to be treated like desert vermin."
"I agree with the General," said Yerli on cue. "The enemy of your people must be destroyed."
The excitement within Kazim was more than he could contain. He had never led troops into battle before. His rapid advancement and power had come from devious manipulations. He did little more than order others to kill those who presented opposition. Now he pictured himself as a great warrior about to charge foreign infidels.
"Order the advance," he ordered. "This is a historic moment. We engage the enemy."
The assault troops ran across the desert in the classic infantry textbook attack, dropping to provide covering fire for other advancing members of the force, then rising and corning on again. The first wave of elite troops began showing, boldly after they reached within 200 meters of the fort without receiving enemy fire. Ahead of them, the tanks had failed to fan out properly and came on in a staggered formation: